Catching Fire
by AgainstHope
Summary: Sometime in Season 6 - Buffy and Spike spend some time *coughcough* at his crypt.  Not a lot in the way of plot on this one, honestly.  One-shot turned 2-shot.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **And as my muse is strongly in one-shot mode, here goes. When I started this I wasn't exactly sure where it would go, and I never pictured it would be what it is. But my muse is a fickle little *ahem* yeah... anyways... enjoy. Oh, and the timeline puts this somewhere in Season 6...after Wrecked, before Seeing Red...

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything. Mutant Enemy, Joss Whedon, and lots of other ridiculously talented people who I can't list own Buffy, Spike, Spike's crypt, etc. I write purely for my own amusement and share purely for kicks, and hopefully your amusement, and will in no way have any monetary gains from this. Still though, the words are mine, and I kindly ask no one repost them anywhere as their own, or at all without my permission. Thanks ^^

**Warning: **There's sex... not like super explicit step by step sexcapades, but sex. Also the word "ass" and probably the occasional Lord's name in vain.. if you're offended by this.. see that little M in the corner there? Also... if you're under 17/18 or whatever the law says, don't read.. or get explicit parental permission... or tell your parents if they're gonna be prudes get an internet block... annnnnd yeah.

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One moment they were glaring at each other. Anger was seeping out of their eyes, and on both sides fists clenched and released, in some sort of unified heartbeat between the pair.

But they already had one heartbeat between the two of them. And they could both tell it was speeding up. Because these two met in fire, lived in fire, and were destined to burn. It was all passion with them, emotion, unbridled and raw, uncensored between them.

They fumbled with words. Each had such wit and wisdom, but they couldn't find it through the fire, honestly, they often forgot to look. Who could want for words when their bodies knew what to express, and exactly how?

In a moment they'd be expressing, passionately, no holds barred. They just had to pick a dance. And so their eyes met, a wrath and heat radiating back and forth, speaking without uneasy words.

Fists released, and forgot to clench. They'd picked a dance. And this was one of their favorites.

She was walking forward, her steps quick and certain. He stayed still, bracing himself for the impact of her frame against his. She was small, but strong, and so he took an unnecessary breath to ready himself.

Her arm reached out as she neared him, grabbing at the back of his duster's collar, pulling him into her by the back of the neck. He didn't fight it, his body falling forward to meet her, his own arms quickly gripping her small waist, one palm pressed into the small of her back, the other against her upper back, fusing their bodies tightly together even through their layered apparel.

Her free hand fisted in a bit of his shirt, resting a bit above his belted pants, holding firm to the fabric beneath his trademark leather. Lips met in an instant, and the fire was fueled.

It was a simple battle, dominance was unnecessary in the pair. They could each demand it, they could each take it, and back and forth, they each would. But it wasn't important, they didn't need to hold control, because control involved give and take, and that involved distance, and thought, and they were far past that. They were in the fire, and they weren't backing up, not for anything.

Which is why it was no surprise to either of them that clothing was not a priority. Skin on skin would be so sweet, but it was unnecessary, unless the clothing should catch fire from their friction, which surely wouldn't have shocked either partner, but it never did occur.

His feet moved swiftly backwards, spinning her and pushing her up against a dirty wall. She didn't resist, and instead aided the process by lifting her legs up, and wrapping them easily around his waist. Her very tall heels dug slightly into his spine, but the tiny flicker of pain was hardly noticeable amidst the sensations that flooded him.

Her tongue was caressing the inside of his mouth. Claiming it in an exploration that would never cease to be invasive and inticing all at once. She demanded all of him, and did not wait for approval. She didn't have to.

He demanded just as much, his hand moving from her upper body to her thigh, raking upwards against the skin, up beneath her skirt to cup her bottom to him tighter, holding her in place as he ground himself in tiny circles against her throbbing heat.

She moaned, her head tilting backwards and her fingers digging in as she let the pleasure wash over her.

The tiny gap between them seemed a vacuum, pulling him in, until his lips were against her throat, nipping and kissing their way down to her collar bone. Blunt teeth and cold lips coaxed her body to moan again as he seemed to stoke the fire between them.

She was leaning forward again now, in control of her body once more. She took control quickly, her teeth grabbing at his earlobe and yanking harshly to catch his attention. He growled, and she smiled, his lobe still between her teeth. She released him, and began to nip at the soft skin behind his ear, her nails digging into his shoulders, noticeable pinpricks even through the duster. Her hips soon found themselves rolling invitingly against him, trying to communicate her need through heady moans.

But they'd been speaking this language for quite a while, and he knew what she was asking. He pushed her harder against the wall so that it would support her entirely as his hand left her back, and moved up her other thigh, until both hands were playing at the lace threads on either side of her hips.

The fabric was thinnest there, and she didn't seem to mind in the slightest when each side was pulled apart with ease. The support broken, the tiny bit of fabric slid away at the lightest tug from his hand, and fell unneeded to the dirt covered floor.

He kept one hand around her ass to pull her tightly against him, but the other hand snaked up and leaned against the wall for support, his elbow touching the wall just above her shoulder, bracing them there carefully.

She took this as her signal, and as their lips met again, hungrier than before, her hands slid down his back and then forward, and soon found their way to his belt buckle. She knew this buckle, and made quick work of it, as she had more times before than she dared to recount.

Her whole body was shaking at the way his kiss massaged her very soul, and the way a slight cold breeze was reaching her wet mound. Her hands though, from some unknown source, had found steadiness, and pulled quickly at his zipper, his button bursting off in the quick pull of impatience.

Her body moved quickly, her arms returning around his shoulders, holding tightly to them, as her legs undid themselves from behind them, and planting themselves along his legs, pushed quickly down, taking his pants with them, until they were bunched around his knees.

He didn't worry about getting rid of them completely, but instead let his skillful hands find the back of her knees, pulling them up around him.

Usually he'd have been a bit gentler at first. He'd have coaxed her into a sweet submission, basking in her gentle mewling sounds, as she let him in a little more at a time. He'd have played with her, taunted her, teased her. But the fire was too strong now. It was ravaging them both and they had no option but to give in. Any other attempt would be futile.

She didn't mind though, she was ready. They'd been screaming so recently, their blood was already at a rolling boil. They'd chosen this dance because it was what they needed. A few punches wouldn't have tided them over for long. No, she could've fought him until they were both nothing but bruises, and neither would've felt sated. They needed this, and they needed it now.

How long had it been? Neither was sure, not now in the haze of their lust-addled world. Too long. That was that, simple and plain, it'd been too long since their bodies had met in this way. This beautiful, terrible, awe-inspiring way.

And so she tightened her legs, pulling him quickly to her, in the most intimate of ways. Their bodies fused, same as always, and they paused a moment, just a heartbeat, to feel the familiar warmth that spread, the slightest ache, and strongest pleasure either would ever experience.

And then came the movement. The rhythm they both knew, both loved, both longed for. Even their fights had this same rhythm, the forwards and backwards, jabs and parries, it was all so choreographed, perfectly fitting every situation, bringing them to every climax, no matter the genre.

Her hand slid backwards easily, pushing off against the wall, forcing them forwards. In the passion he forgot that his knees were still trapped in the thick denim material and he began to fall backwards. But her arms caught them as they fell, easing them, though not exactly gently, into the floor. Here their writhing could take them to new heights.

She pulled backwards, sitting up against him, knees curled on either side of his hips, and hands digging into his upper arms through the layers that still covered him.

His hands found her waist, just above her skirt, and pulled until the thin material of her blouse was loose. He began to coast his hands upwards, over the flimsy material until he reached her shoulders where the thin straps rested.

Her eyes were squeezed shut as her body rocked in perfect synchronicity with his own movements. His fingers gripped at her straps, and with a sudden yank, the fabric tore on each sleeve, and the remaining fabric pooled around her waist on top of her splayed out skirt.

Her eyes burst open and glared down at him, fueling the passion between them even more, as her movements suddenly became more jarring, more violent, more intense.

He only smirked, and dug his fingers into her hips in a bruising grip as he tried to reign in the pace. No need to rush this, after all, he liked to climb to his peak gradually.

She was having none of that though, and soon she was clamping down on him in a way he was sure only she ever could. His lips parted in a gentle gasp, and he knew he had to even the odds. He took his left hand, his better hand, and snaked it between their bodies, his thumb quickly finding a familiar nook of his lover's body and flicking it as a quick tease.

She gasped, her glare breaking instantly, and he quirked an eyebrow, before she was bending down again. They both had too much control, they both knew it, all was well. She was kissing him feverishly, rubbing herself even closer to him, before pulling herself away in the most coquettish of ways possible in the given context.

He'd never let her get far though, before his hand still at her waist would slam her back down against him, bringing them together yet again, before they'd even really been apart.

His left hand, now becoming crushed between their rushed impacts, moved itself to her back, where it quickly found the clasp to her bra and undid it with a simple twist.

Yet another gasp escaped her lips, swallowed quickly by his kiss as she felt the thin lace material making it's way down her arms. She quickly shook it off in a moment of lucid thought, knowing it'd be ripped to shreds if she didn't. As it was, she wasn't really sure she had enough clothing to find her way home in, but for now that was unimportant.

Surely when this dance had finished they'd have another, this one with fists and kicks. But the blows would hurt a bit less, memories of their bodies merged so sensually still on their skin. And that would be a relief.

Maybe tonight, when she looked at him in disgust and shook that tattered shirt in his face, blaming it all on him, he could remember this, and know she didn't mean it. He could remember the way his fingers elicited the softest moans, moans that if they had dared to form words, would have only been sweet and kind and gentle. Maybe he would remember that look in her eyes that was slightly foggy, the way her lips, moist from contact with his own, fell just every so slightly open, all at his ministrations.

But in all likelihood, she'd say something so harsh, so cruel, she'd steal these moments away. She'd throw a punch to some patch of skin that she'd kissed, and he'd do his best to act like it didn't hurt. And she'd do her best to act like she didn't care.

The fire was being quenched, and when it left them alone in the real world, she didn't know what she'd do. So she blocked out the thoughts, and rode him more harshly. But he saw the flicker in her foggy eyes, saw the way her muscles tensed and her movements grew harsh and angry.

It didn't take as long anymore. Used to be she wouldn't grow angry until morning light threatened to stream in through cracks they'd made in the walls. Then it wasn't until the slight basking of afterglow. Now, here she was, amidst the throws of their ecstasy, the brief moments in which nothing separated them, and she was trying to rebuild her walls. He was having none of it.

Quickly, catching her off guard, he flipped them over, until she was laying on the ground underneath him, and he was smiling down at the shocked look as it played across her face.

He smirked, and leaned in for a gentle peck, stopping it before it could be too intense. He'd stay in control for now. He'd keep her here, with him, for as long as he could. Even if that wasn't long enough, not really.

His body found a new rhythm, a gentler one, one hand propping him up, as the other coasted over her body. His lips began to peruse her form, gently kissing, licking, and nipping at every bit of exposed skin until her back was arched to the point of breaking.

"Spike?" She asked, her voice shaky, taken off guard by the gentle way he was touching her. The way he was being so very tender, where there should only be bruising need.

"Hush, luv." He quieted her for a moment, his thrusts growing slower, but more precise. "Let me.. please?" The look in his eyes was begging, pleading with her to let him, just to let him show her what this could be, what he could be.

She let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding, releasing it as a soft moan. She swallowed the lump that was forming in her throat and nodded her head slightly, tears almost starting to well up in her eyes. She didn't' know how, didn't know why. What was he doing to her? Why wasn't she stopping him? Why didn't' she want him to stop?

The questions were too much, and she had to silence them, so her hands reached up and grabbing the back of his head pulled him down tenderly. Her lips met his, and moved softly, slowly, with precision she hadn't known she could possess. This was the dance she'd forgotten. The dance she'd never known was an option. Or, perhaps she'd always known, but never admitted.

Because though she was addicted to all the dances, though he always had her on fire, this dance, this flame, it didn't end, it didn't burn out. This candle would burn until the stars had long since died, until the world was nothing but pitch black and it was only their movements left in all of time and space.

And with that thought, she found her peak had snuck up on her, and she was falling. Falling through that darkness of time and space. The only sensation she knew was him, him pushed against her. The faintest feeling of his cool skin soothing her own flushed body.

She didn't know if her eyes were open or closed, or perhaps in between. She saw his eyes though, those beautiful cerulean pools that seemed to bath her in light and love she'd never known. She didn't want to come down, didn't want the world to reform. But bit by bit it did and she opened her eyes and knew he'd fallen with her, the way he was now gasping, having yet again forgotten he didn't need the air, over her body, a smile on his face, and hope so painfully outlined in his eyes.

The world came back in sudden ferocious clarity and she didn't know what to do with it. She was terrified. Fight or flight, those were all she'd ever known, and somehow she knew either one would destroy her hopes of having this again. And god how she wanted to have this again.

He looked down on her, the hope in his eyes gradually turning to worry at the expression of uncertainty on her face. She saw as he prepared himself for her rejection, as he readied himself for a smack to the face, or a groan of disgust. His lips pursed, and his forehead wrinkled as he tightened his expression in wait.

Several times he opened his mouth, licked his lips, and seemed about to speak, but each time his lips fell closed, not knowing what to voice. What would save him from this situation he'd pushed far too soon. He'd never have this again, and this was all he wanted for all of eternity. He'd do anything to save it. Whatever it'd take. But he didn't know if that was even possible, if she'd even give him a chance.

"Thank you…" she finally said, her voice soft, and hoarse, and uneven in the large emptiness of his crypt. She didn't meet his eyes, she didn't know how to. And she knew, vaguely, that tears were beginning to form in them, and she felt terribly self conscious suddenly.

He was still pulled back from her in waiting, his knees still rested between her legs, but the skirt had fallen closed against the floor as a slight buffer between them. Suddenly the cold air accosted her breasts, and she realized how she must look, splayed out here, half undressed, near tears, her voice full of uncertainty. She crossed her arms over her chest quickly, trying to cover her breasts. As though he hadn't seen them, held them, tasted them even a million times before. Hell, he knew them better than anyone ever had or ever would, but here she was, covering them from his sight.

"Don't… please Buffy…" He was pleading again, but he didn't know what for. She turned her gaze to meet his, her eyes soft with tears, and his with need. She didn't know what he wanted either, except she supposed she did. He was begging her not to pull away, not again. It wasn't about the way she was covering herself, it was about the way she was hiding herself, what she was feeling from both of them.

"I can't Spike… I just… God I'm sorry… I just… please understand, William.. please…" Her words were uneven and uneasy. Her gaze, though she tried to keep it on him, flickered aimlessly around the room. Her grip tightened around herself, and she found herself scooting away from him slightly on the floor to pull herself into a sitting position, her legs folded tightly underneath her, as she hunched her shoulders over.

He moved himself from between her legs to let her move, and once she was situated, nearly curled up in a ball a few feet away, he pulled his pants up from his knees, simply so he could move, and found his way quickly beside her, wrapping his arms around her, hoping, praying, she wouldn't try to avoid his embrace.

She didn't though, she leaned into him, and one of her hands moved from her chest to grip at his shirt as she began to sob softly into it.

He shrugged his duster off his shoulders and wrapped it quickly around hers, pulling her up into his lap and even closer to him, careful to tuck himself back into his jeans before he did so, so as not to frighten her off. He was still trying to make sense of her words.

She had called him William, which she never did, and she had apologized, begged for understanding. This was strange for the slayer, he knew that, and he didn't know what had brought it on. Usually she'd fight him, or just run away, but she'd done neither. She was weak and vulnerable, and near him. She didn't even seem to be afraid of what had happened, only what would happen.

"I don't… Buffy.. talk to me.. I don't know…what…just talk to me…" Why was it that all his smooth talking left the room for the one girl he needed it with. The one woman he'd do anything to sweet talk, or explain himself to, with her he was just a bundle of nerves that could barely speak. She brought out the nancy schoolboy in him, that was for sure.

"Not so good with words…" she muttered under her breath, as the sobs seemed to subside. Slowly she pulled her head from his chest and looked up at him, her eyes now pleading with him instead. "Can I just kiss you instead.. could that… would you?"

He smiled sadly and pulled her up to him, kissing her tenderly. "You're bloody brilliant with words, luv. Your audience just never gets to appreciate 'em, what with the being dust and all." he finally said after they parted.

She laughed a soft, sad laugh, and smiled warmly up at him, her hand playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. "I just.. I don't know what to say to you, Spike. Don't even know what to say to myself.. about… well.. about this.." She waved her arms in slight erratic movements as if to emphasize her point.

This time it was his turn to let out a sad laugh. "Know what you mean, pet. Not exactly why you came by tonight, huh?"

"Well…" she muttered, and suddenly her cheeks were a brilliant red, and she was burying her face in his shirt again.

He felt the heat through the material and smirked softly to himself. "What was that, slayer?"

"Well… I mean…" She paused, looking up at him, and let her face grow stern again at the sight of his smirk. "Shut up, Spike!" She finally quipped, though without any menace, crossing her arms again.

His smirk spread quickly. "You know, luv. The intimidation works much better when you're wearing a top."

She blushed yet again, and they both smiled as he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into his chest.

She clung there, taking a deep inhalation of his scent. He beamed, hearing her slight sniffing. One of his hands was under his duster, and rubbed small circles gently into her back, causing her to relax into him further.

He was holding her, holding her for just a moment in time and she wasn't running away. She wasn't trying to sprint out of the room, or throw things at him. She wasn't angry, or sad. She was just.. confused? Something like that, he supposed. But she wasn't fighting whatever this was, not actively at least, not now. And that was a victory in and of itself, and for that he'd be grateful.

"Pet?" He finally asked after a moment's pause. But she was silent, and her breathing was steady. And after a moment he realized, she had fallen asleep, safe and sound in his arms.

His smirk turned into a warm smile, before he lifted her gently up in his arms, and began to lead her down to the bed. Oddly enough, she never seemed to make it there. But tonight she was tired, and maybe when she woke up she'd be herself again, and she'd yell at him, or say he should've woken her, sent her home. But her clothing was in shreds, and she was exhausted, so for tonight, just for tonight, he'd hold her. Morning could bring what it liked. For tonight, in more ways than ever before, they would be together, they would be content.

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**A/N 2.0: **Ok, yeah, so... I've never actually written anything M before... sooo... feedback would be great, good or bad. Also, this is intended to be a oneshot.. but knowing me, I could be convinced to make it a 2-3 shot... Thanks for reading :)


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Thank you so much to those who reviewed the first chapter! It really makes my day getting feedback, and I'm especially glad to hear you enjoyed it. And, since there was some interest, here is the morning after. It's shorter than the first part, and a lot less heated, but I tried to do justice to the dynamic between Spike and Buffy in season 6. Well, justice with perhaps a more pro-Spuffy twist. :)

**Warning: **If you read the last chapter, there shouldn't be anything here you can't read.

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Consciousness tugged at the edges of her reality. Slowly sensations returned to Buffy's body, and an idea took form. She was back in heaven. A different heaven though, since she could _feel_ here. Heaven was the only way to explain the sinfully soft, almost liquid, fabric that draped over her breasts so seductively.

A few moments passed, her eyes still closed, and her idea still in tact. And then she allowed her eyelids to flicker open and let reality take hold. The wall across from her, lit vaguely by a few dying candles was rough, that of a cave, or a crypt. A crypt. As soon as the word crossed her mind everything fell into place, and she froze. The night before came swirling through her mind to the forefront. Until she could think of nothing else.

There was a stillness in the bed, but now that she knew where she was, Buffy couldn't deny that she sensed Spike behind her, laying perfectly still, but watching her.

He had known the second she'd woken up. Her breathing had sped slightly up, and her body had shifted, almost imperceptibly. He had been waiting for it though, and now he lay on his side, watching her back tense and flinch, as he continued his wait for the reaction.

Spike had hardly slept, his mind running through the possibilities of the morning. She'd seemed perceptive the night before, almost willing, but he knew better than to expect that come daylight. He half expected her to be angry with him for not making sure she got home last night, for her to shout some rationalization about Dawn or her friends worrying. That thought stung though, and he tried to push it from his mind.

She knew she had been moved to Spike's bed, no doubt after she'd fallen asleep. She took a deep breath and tried to figure out if there was anything else amiss. It would be morning now, almost at least, and other than the skirt she was still wearing, and a bra thrown somewhere on the upper level, she didn't even have clothing to make her way home.

But did she want to go home? Spike was waiting for a reaction, and she knew he'd know she was awake. He was being patient, but he wouldn't wait forever, not after last night. And Buffy, for the life of her, still didn't know how she wanted to react.

In the past she'd shout at him, act angry and offended, and mid-tantrum throw a punch to his nose and make her exit. It was a habit, and it had served her well, more or less, so far. Even if sometimes she felt a slight twinge at the pain in his eyes. The truth of the matter was that last night wasn't like any others they'd shared.

The fact that she wasn't even sore was proof enough of that. They'd only been together once that night, far less than usual, but it had been something more. It hadn't just been sex. It hadn't been physically powerful, it had, if anything, been quite the opposite. It had been tender and gentle, but somehow stronger than anything they'd had before. There had been something beyond the physicality and it had shaken her, and she didn't know what to do.

With Spike usually when fighting didn't work Buffy turned to sex instead. But she knew she couldn't just roll over and have another go with him. She couldn't dirty what they'd had like that, by jumping his bones now in their usual volatile way. It would feel wrong, and she felt more right than she had in a long time.

That left one option… talking. When she'd come back from the grave, that had been what Spike was best for, for listening to the words she couldn't say to anyone else. Maybe he could do that again. Letting out a soft sigh she finally broke the silence and spoke. "You shouldn't have done that…" Her voice was hoarse from sleep, but soft. She wasn't yelling, or angry, it wasn't even accusatory, more… warning, perhaps.

"Yeah?" It wasn't an agreement, or an argument. It was a question, a prompt. He needed her to say more, to explain what she meant. But she wasn't even sure she knew.

"It's not supposed to be like this." Buffy said, her voice even softer this time, barely audible. Her fingers began to fidget with the edges of the silk sheets nervously.

"An' how's it 'sposed to be, pet?" Spike asked. His voice was quiet as well, but even in the softness a shaky uncertainty could be heard. He wasn't angry either, but he certainly wasn't happy. Then again, this was probably as much as he could expect, a conversation. It was just a matter of where exactly this conversation was going.

"I don't know… I just…" Buffy's body began to curl up more, shaking slightly, and she knew she'd be crying soon, the tears already starting to form in her eyes. She did her best to steady her voice though, hoping Spike wouldn't notice the cracking. "it's just all wrong. Everything's all wrong, Spike."

As she said his name, she felt her resolve breaking. Her shaking became more severe, and her pursed lips let out a soft gasping sob. She refused to wipe her eyes though, hoping that if she didn't move Spike would ignore her tears.

But he knew what was happening, and he couldn't ignore it when the woman he loved was crying, no matter what was happening between them. He inched forward, though he didn't know how she'd react to his touch. Leaving a gap between their bodies on the bed he placed his hand on her upper arm softly, massaging it slightly.

There were a few sobs, but Buffy did her best to hold them back. Soon she had reeled herself in, and only her slightly ragged breaths broke the silence of the crypt. Spike waited, letting the silence drag on, comfortably, between them. Finally he spoke. "What do ya want from me, pet?" His voice was uneven as though he was struggling to keep it calm despite swelling emotions.

Buffy reached her hand up across her body and clasped onto his, taking it from her arm to hold it tighter. He squeezed back, and finally, she turned over to face him.

Finally the pair could see one another. Spike was shocked by how small and frail his slayer looked here, like this. Her skin was so very pale where it peaked around his dark red sheets, as though she hadn't quite shaken her death yet. Her eyes were full of tears that perfectly matched the streaks already covering her cheeks. Even her lips seemed chapped slightly. This wasn't a girl with answers. She was strong, and she'd bounce back soon enough, he knew that, deep down he'd always known she wasn't the sort of girl you could break or destroy. Still though, this girl, laying in front of him, gripping to his hand as though it were her only lifeline, was a girl with questions, and little else.

"Forgiveness." The word was simple, and she said it with a certainty that seemed foreign to her. Still though, Spike didn't know how to react. He raised his eyebrow, clearly not knowing what she meant, and held her hand slightly tighter. He was afraid that she meant that she wanted to act as though last night hadn't happened, that it'd never happen again. But she shook her head slightly against the notion.

There were so many things to say, and she didn't know how to speak with Spike. "Remember… do you remember when I first came back from… when I came back?" Her volume had increased, but so had the tremors in her tone.

Spike only nodded his head, not wanting to interrupt whatever she had to say. He needed to know where she stood, what she wanted. Because whatever it was, against his better judgement even, he'd be there for her. That was just how he was, how he'd always been.

"I could tell you things… you never… you were just there… you know?" Her eyes were pleading for understanding, for acknowledgement, and so again he nodded his head and squeezed her hand, urging her to continue.

"I was so numb…" She choked on the words, and paused, pulling her free hand to her face to stifle the sob as it escaped. Her eyes shut tightly, squinting against the onslaught of repressed emotion. "I…I…" She tried to speak again, but she couldn't seem to make herself. She was breaking down, falling apart here in the bed of what should have been her enemy.

Spike sensed her desperation and quickly slid forward, closing the gap between them. He released her hand, and instead pulled her into his arms, wrapping her in his embrace. Much to his surprise, she didn't fight him. Much like the night before, she instead curled up, and let him hold her. She let him be her comfort, when she could find no other refuge.

After the worst of the sobs had passed she pulled her head slightly backwards, so that her words wouldn't be muffled by his chest. She stroked a hand down the ivory planes of his naked torso, noticing for the first time that he'd left his tight denim jeans on the night before. No doubt trying to make her as comfortable as possible. She found herself smiling softly at the idea, a sad smile, but a smile nonetheless.

"You're the only one who knows how to make me feel." She finally admitted, looking up through her eyelashes to meet his eyes and gauge his reaction.

"Is that…" His voice shook just as hers had, and self doubt plagued his features. "Is that ok?"

A soft laugh broke the tense air. "Ok? It's.. it's amazing, Spike…" She smiled at him, sniffling slightly as she did so.

A tentative smile reached Spike's face, and slowly spread as she said nothing against it. And soon it was a full grin, and his arms held even tighter to her form, as though she herself embodied this moment and he was desperate not to let her, or it, go.

"Just.. last night…" Her smile had faded, and she wouldn't meet his eyes again. His own smile disappeared almost instantaneously, and his arms released her, falling until only his fingertips still rested on her body.

"Out with it, slayer." Spike said, his voice defensive and rough with untamed emotions.

"No, please, Spike.. just… just hear me out…" Her voice was rushed now, and overflowing with need. She reached out, her hand grabbing his arm, just by his shoulder, as though trying to keep him there, with her, trying to keep him from getting defensive and angry.

"This is bloody well real, slayer." Spike said, pulling his arm backwards, away from her clutches. "Wont' have you tell me different, either. Know you felt something last night. Have to be bloody daft not to."

Buffy opened her lips to protest, but he cut her off, shaking his head and pulling away even further in the bed. "Don't you dare go off telling me what I can't feel, pet. Soul or no, I never had a problem loving. Just cause you forgot how to when you died doesn't mean we all did!"

As soon as he said the words, he wished he could take them back. Her face fell, and hurt couldn't even begin to describe the betrayal on her features. He reached out his hand to grab her arm, and an apology was nearly to his lips, but she'd pulled back harshly.

She was standing now, out of the bed, arms crossed over her chest, covering her exposed brests as her eyes scanned the room for something, anything, to cover her properly. "No.. no, Spike. You're right. I… I wont' be bothering you again." Her words were slightly garbled by her crying, but she didn't let herself hesitate in delivering them.

"Buffy, wait, please. I didn't… I didn't mean it, love!" Spike was begging. He stood up from bed quickly, striding across the crypt, reaching out yet again for her. But she pulled away, refusing to even meet his eyes, so he let his hand fall. He couldn't force her, not after what he'd said. He deserved her walking out, and he knew it.

"Bugger all!" He finally shouted, turning quickly on his heels to pace beside the bed, opposite of Buffy. His eyes stayed fixated on the floor as he paced, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck, working out some seemingly insurmountable tension that was being housed there.

At the sound of his shout, Buffy stopped her search for clothing, and looked up at him with a mixture of fear and curiosity. "You're right…" She whispered. But he heard, he always heard, and he looked up, meeting her eyes with uncertainty.

"No." He said, his voice firm and resolved, he shook his head as if to drive home the point. Stepping slowly towards her, he continued, "I was wrong, love. I'm always wrong. Never been one to think with my head, pet. I say things I don't' mean. I didn't mean it. Really."

"When I…" Buffy paused, still struggling to say what needed to be said, but seeing the desperation she felt reflected back in Spike's eyes, she found the words. "When I came back… back from Heaven… I wasn't right." Spike looked like he was about to protest, but she raised a hand and hung her head to silence him. "I'd forgotten. Forgotten everything… forgotten what living meant…"

Spike continued to walk forward, but Buffy's eyes remained focused on the floor, unyielding in their gaze. "Feeling.. it hurt. It was so.. so harsh. I thought that was all it'd ever be. I was sure. I was sure the hurt was all I'd have. And then…"

She took a deep, shaky breath, pushing the hysteria from her tone, and looked up, raising her head to look into his eyes. He had closed the gap between them and now stood only a few feet away. "Last night…" Her voice cracked again, and he seemed to understand that this was hard for her. He reached out his hand and delicately pushed a few loose strands of hair behind her ear, encouraging her that he was there.

"Last night everything changed." She finally admitted, her eyes holding his gaze with a strength and fire that he hadn't thought possible just a few minutes earlier. "I… I felt something strong… something good…" Tears were starting to swell in her eyes again, but this time her lips were curling gradually into a smile.

"You.. you said… that you saved me… every night.. while I was gone, you saved me…" Her eyes seemed searching, as though she wasn't sure she'd really heard him say the words. It had been the night she'd come back, and memories of that night were still harsh and surreal. But his head nodded, his eyebrows furrowed and jaw tense with confusion. "Last night… you did."

The tears wouldn't stay in her eyes any longer, and began to carve paths down her cheeks, but she wasn't shaking this time. She wasn't convulsing under the weight of the emotions. Instead she was reaching her arms out, steady as ever, to wrap around his shoulders. "You.. you saved me."

The motions were slow, and tentative. It was as though she wasn't sure he'd let her, wasn't sure that this was ok. But he lifted his hands too, allowing them to find a familiar resting place around her waist, perched just above the curve of her ass. They waited there a moment, frozen in thought. Neither wanted to push the other, to assume anything about the situation.

They'd rushed too often lately, and ended up dreading the fallout. This was, much like the night before, special. And that was something they couldn't risk losing. "What now?" Spike asked, knowing he couldn't proceed without the answer.

"Well…" Buffy's cheeks began to flush, and her eyes darted around the room, not quite meeting his. "Its probably still light out…"

"Uh huh…" Spike agreed, not sure what she was trying to say.

"And… well… my shirt is ruined…" Her voice drifted off, and she looked up once more to meet Spike's brilliant blue eyes.

Just as he was about to offer her his duster, or one of his own shirts, he realized what she was getting at. "Shame, that…" He voiced, his voice low and breathy as he pulled her body in tighter.

"Yeah, so-" But whatever explanation Buffy had planned to offer was silenced by cold lips against her own warm ones. The kiss was full of passion, full of fire, but it was slow, and tender, and held promise neither had ever felt.

They were both nothing but moths, and this flame could very well be their demise. But they would fly to it anyway, despite any so called better judgement they might hear. Because they may be moths, doomed by the candlelight, or they just might be phoenixes, destined for the blaze. Either way, together they'd burn.

* * *

**A/N 2.0: **So, that's the end. I can think of nothing more to add without really just detracting from the whole of it. I hope you all enjoy it, and I hope the second part lives up to any expectations you may have had. Feedback is always appreciated, so please let me know what you think!

Thanks for reading,

_AgainstHope_


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